The War Goes On
by The-Shepherd's-Daughter
Summary: A collection of vignettes, ficlets, and misc. drabbles inspired as I watch the Animated series and more. Mainly Bruce and batfamily-centric h/c; a little innocent fluff can be expected. It is Batman after all, so expect angst at times (it's my thing). Currently: Tim discovers that when snooping through a certain person's bookshelves, the results can be very...entertaining.
1. Lucky Strike (Pt 1)

**Title:** Lucky Strike (1/2)  
 **Prompt (#1** ): Shot  
 **Word Count:** 2119 (this part)  
 **Summary:** A nameless henchman finds that today is his lucky day and Batman must grapple with his immortality, or lack thereof.

 **Master A/N:** So, I'm going through the Animated Series for the first time now and this happened: my first attempt at a collection of ficlets. The plan so far is to start with six prompts and then see where it goes from there. If this new Batman obsession keeps up I will keep adding to it as the inspiration comes. The first three are already in the works, but the next three are still up in air. I welcome suggestions! First time I've really done prompts, and I'm kinda likin' them.

* * *

He knew the instant the sensation hit him that he had made a mistake. While the placing of true blame could lie on anyone, it seemed Lady Luck had finally turned her favor on a less deserving recipient. This time he had screwed up, in that crucial moment he had finally become careless enough to let something like this happen. This nameless henchman had then seized the opportunity of a lifetime; an opportunity to become the first to finally "peg the Batman".

Upon impact, a reflexive and well placed batarang in the barrel thwarted the goon's attempt at a second aimed shot. By the looks of a few second's glance, the broken bones of the man's hand thanks to the explosive recoil would keep that part of the town's underbelly busy for a few minutes. For the moment, however, Gotham's Dark Knight tried to control his tunneling vision and the growing crimson stain spreading across the grey expanse which was the front of his costume.

He was used to being taken from behind in a fight, even if he had other immediate opponents to deal with. But he had not expected the speed at which the third and unexpected goon, who he had assumed had been knocked out in the first round, had whipped out his gun and took deadly accurate aim. Apparently their boss had finally come up in the world if he could afford a sharpshooter of that caliber. They never came cheaply, of that Bruce knew well.

While he had become an expert dodger in his years of prowling the Gotham streets, the realization came to him as he stumbled over his own feet and promptly fell against a sturdy metal pipe that this had to happen sooner or later. He was not above the laws of physics, nor was he the true master of his own fate though he loathed to admit it. After years of looking straight down the corridor of death and then dancing merrily upon its threshold, the fate he had so miraculously avoided had to befall him eventually.

It was at that moment that he realized how seriously he had been misleading himself as of late. He was not a god among men like Superman or even Wonder Woman, just a mortal in a bat costume pretending to be one. Sure, he had constructed a plan to avoid injury should this outcome become a reality, but even bulletproof armor had its chinks.

Besides, that was in its prototype stages and, as was his luck tonight, he had failed to wear it. However, an armored costume and an arsenal of gadgetry, while they had been his saving graces more often than not, would not prevent the inevitable in the end. Without that realization to ground him in reality, he had allowed himself to become complacent. Consequently, his reliance on his wits to overcome all obstacles had suffered, and now he was paying the price.

This was supposed to have been a simple rendezvous with two of Gotham's budding factions, nothing fancy or difficult about it in any way. His ears of the underground had spoken of the meeting and alleged exchange of illegal contraband with mild apprehension. To them, it was just another regular event. In hindsight, Bruce mused at the cruel irony of it all. Here he was, the great defender of Gotham's virtue, now sliding to the floor of the condemned warehouse they had chosen to meet in with a bullet in his side. Try as he might, standing was becoming a more difficult task as the seconds sluggishly ticked past.

He shifted with a deep grunt, the hot tang of blood springing forward and coming to rest at the back of his tongue. Speculation, coupled with a ginger exploration, added two fractured ribs to the night's repatriate; and with his luck as it currently stood, one of them was probably poking at a lung. The increasingly laborious task that was breathing cemented that in the realm of possibility. Bruce's eyes narrowed. A broken hand was too good an outcome for this piece of trash, who had, as he immediately noticed when his vision momentarily cleared, disappeared entirely.

Using all of his mental resolve to push back the fingers of darkness that were slithering forward to snatch his conscious mind, Bruce tried to assess his surroundings. To his surprise, the goons were not regrouping for the final blow as he had suspected by the eerie silence. They were gone, like a puff of smoke in an easterly wind. He again tried to clear the cobwebs that were rapidly enveloping his mind in an effort to jump start his senses, as they had become curiously absent in the moment.

It was then that he heard them, harsh and blaring to his sensitive ears that pulsated with the rough beatings of his heart. Great flashes of red and blue streamed through the dirt stained window panes, illuminating the shadows of the warehouse, and the sirens crudely pierced the silence that he was just beginning to appreciate. Gordon... Just what he needed now, a desecration of the image he had worked so hard to create. It would not do for Gotham's indestructible symbol of justice to be found by the police force lying in a bleeding heap on the floor of some nameless building. No, it would not do at all.

Bruce gritted his teeth as pain, white hot and searing like hellfire, shot through every nerve of his being when he shifted into a better position to stand. His gloved hands scrambled for a hold on the smooth metal of the piping and he forcibly held his diaphragm down as a reflexive shout nearly escaped his lips. His lung then protested that sudden action by nearly burning through his chest. He could hear voices now, and a quick glance told him Gordon had ordered a search of the premise. How they were even tipped off that a trade was being made tonight he would never know.

Right now, his main concern was finding his feet and getting _out_. Another glance at his side showed that the fabric of his costume could hold no more and the crimson stain had now begun muddy the dirt floor with murky crimson puddles. _Well_ , he mused despite himself, _they could only track_ that _so far_. A harsh rattling at one of the main doors accompanied by officers' shouts signaled that it was the time to start heading for the back door. His gloved hand left the assistance of the piping behind, and the Dark Knight stepped hesitantly forward.

That subsequent journey was one Bruce would not soon forget. Never had he felt a period of time pass more slowly than this, and he had even fought a master of Time on occassion. Even when he was in Japan under the tutelage of Yoru Sensei, racing the other students to climb to a mountainside temple, even that felt as though it did not compare to the laborious task that was reaching that little back alley.

His reeling mind drifted back to that snowy mountainside, the blizzardy winds picking up bits of ice to throw at his face and into his eyes as he had climbed. It was if he returned to that moment in time, as if the dirt floor had turned to icy stone and blaring police sirens had become the screaming wind again. He remembered that there had been times during the ascent when he could barely make out his fellow students in the whiteout, each struggling to reach the top in their own ways. It was during those moments that his feet had become made of lead, and the blood within his veins flowed thick and sluggishly, as though it was unable to be propelled throughout his limbs. His muscles had ached like nothing he remembered before, even in his early training.

After so many countless miles of trekking, Bruce's movements had become mechanical in the howling of that wicked mountain wind, his mind becoming fogged with pain and fatigue. And if the fogging of his head cleared for one blissful moment, it was to alert him that his diaphragm was cramping again. The altitude had begun to claim the precious air in his lungs, and his body was paying the price.

There had been one instance where his foot had slipped on the ice and he had hung from the ledge with only his grappling hook as an anchor; a thought had ghosted across his clouded mind in that moment that relief could have come with that subsequent fall. No more climbing, no more wrestling, just sweet relief. It was now, as his mind relived those times past, that the ice melted from his feet and returned to dirt once more. The wind died to a mechanical wail. From beneath the darkness of his consciousness, Bruce discerned those voices getting louder. They were near to finding him as he had imagined, a bloodied heap gasping on the floor like a hooked trout.

It sounded wonderful, the thought of relaxing into the ground's warm, soft embrace. No more wrestling to place one foot in front of the other, no more aching limbs crying out for mercy, no more uncertainties… Relief at last.

But like a similar time on that lonely, forsaken mountainside in the Japanese hill country, Bruce Wayne had denied himself that relief. He denied himself the chance to feel the freedom from his pain that falling could have offered, instead testing the hold of his wavering grappling hook and painstakingly hauling himself up by its cable.

The other students, who had been allowed to watch thanks to a break in the whiteout, could be heard speaking in hushed voices for months afterward about the strength of will that the rich man's son had shown that day. As he had done then, so he did now, hauling himself upright again with only a crimson pool to mark his resting place. The door was in sight now, invitingly close and yet impossibly far, just as the silhouette of the temple steeple had been. He bit back a growl as his diaphragm was set alight by another paroxysm of agony that shot across his right side. Ah, those broken ribs lending their voice again.

His mind then faded back into memory, the temple steeple becoming clearer in his mind's eye as each precious second ticked by. He had made himself focus on his footholds, the idea of losing ground to a faulty step adding to his determination and concentration. A yell rang out behind him, reverberating off the mountain walls. A fellow student had fallen.

He dared not look down, even though he wanted to, instead fixing his gaze on the steeple's huge copper gong swaying in the howling wind. It was close enough, he felt, for him to reach out and touch the rod that crowned the point of the steeple roof. He could make it; the end was in sight. Something took over his body in those last few moments, what it was he never would, or could, explain.

So it had done on that ascent, so it did now. Those last few steps seemed the hardest of all, making limbs burn and lungs ache in anticipation. But there it was, the threshold of relief. Bruce had, on that icy mountain, pulled himself onto the ledge with a cry, rolling onto his back in the soft snow. He had later attributed the watery stains that had frozen to his cheeks to the intensity of the climb, only in his private thoughts did he know the truth; they had been tears. Yet now, he staggered out of that condemned warehouse turned personal hell with nary a sound, the rusty door swinging shut behind him with punctuating finality. The alleyway lay beyond him, beckoning and inviting as no such place had been to him before.

A quick flick of the wrist brought his coordinates to the Batmobile and from the darkness of his mind and the shadows of the alley he heard the engine come to life. Headlights cut through the evening fog like a knife, and it was then that every pore within him sagged with the intensity of his relief. The Batmobile came to a stop a few feet from where he stood, engine purring invitingly and the hatch sliding open with a soft hiss. He stepped toward the door, a hand reaching out for support. His legs buckled. A warm and invitingly dark feeling crept from his toes to the very tips of his ears and settled behind his eyes, allowing the darkness to finally envelope his consciousness once and for all.


	2. Lucky Strike (Pt 2)

**Title:** Lucky Strike (2/2)  
 **Prompt (#1):** Shot  
 **Word Count:** 1,243 (this part)  
 **Summary:** (This chapter) A rookie first-responder to the crime scene that was Batman's one undoing muses over Gotham, its famous vigilante, and how he fits into it all.

 **A/N:** This was supposed to be a little ironic bit to end Part 1. Needless to say I got a bit carried away (whoops!) This guy was solely created to serve up the dramatic irony. Oh, and he also adds a little cameo to another animated series. *hint hint*

* * *

Being new to Gotham's police force had its advantages, sure, (like still being alive) but Kip Anderson was beginning to believe he was destined to only see the disadvantages. Besides the obvious ones that came with Gotham's dubious reputation as a criminal hotspot and a law officer's nightmare, he was finding that very few on the force had the patience and understanding toward "newbies ".

Each one seemed possessed by their own demons, the scars of their chosen occupation not always visible on their skin. An almost funereal air seemed to hang over the GCPD headquarters, and it burdened his newly cultivated enthusiastic heart.

Now, despite his inexperience he was no greenhorn; he had graduated from Metropolis' police academy at the top of his class and was personally proud of that achievement. But while no officer he met had been unfairly cruel, the supposed good-natured teasing had lost its initial humorousness, at least to him anyway. Maybe his hometown was part of what made him an attractive target, as the bright and cheery Metropolis was the absolute polar opposite compared to the dark and brooding Gotham City.

Unfortunately for Kip, it seemed Metropolis' sunny attitudes had rubbed off on him. But Gotham's dark antithesis was what had attracted him in the first place and eventually brought him to stay despite the rumors that shrouded the city like a looming cloud. Gotham _needed_ law and order, while Metropolis had all they could ever need in Superman. Even the supposedly invincible Batman could not be everywhere at once!

Regardless of his current woes, however, Kip had a job to do. The Commissioner himself had even given him passing pat on the shoulder as he was on his way to the scene, telling him how much he had appreciated the enthusiasm. So, nothing short of a catastrophe would erase his good mood on this night. Because, hey, who gets a compliment from Commissioner Gordon (of all people) on their first big assignment?

The call had been nothing new for those of the well-seasoned caliber of officer. Someone had seen lots of unsavory activity going on in some old warehouse by the waterfront. Big surprise there! The Commissioner had sent a small detachment of officers to evaluate the scene, Kip being one of them. They had soon learned to expect the unexpected with this city and its inhabitants, so the GCPD always erred on the side of caution and sent more than was really necessary. One never knew when the Joker or Two-Face would rear their ugly heads on the Gotham streets again...

But despite the others' general indifference toward the current assignment, Anderson was ready and rearing to go. A little apprehensive perhaps, as who knew what could happen, but the excitement towards his first real case on the force could not be completely hidden from his features.

The detachment had checked the perimeter in the beginning and, after finding nothing out of the ordinary, chose to investigate the slowly decaying interior. They had thought at one point that they heard some commotion along the side street, but a preliminary sweep rendered nothing but the pitch black, dank atmosphere of the alley. The Lieutenant then ordered them to fan out and search the building for any signs of trouble or evidence. Who knew when or where some mobster would decide to stash away his contraband for safe keeping…

A fellow officer named Mandy Keefer had become all but attached to Anderson's hip those past few weeks, taking every opportunity to needle him about his inexperience. Apparently, she found his newly-instated position amusing, if only to herself. It was no different on this night, but his pleasant mood kept Kip from becoming as off-put by her teasing as he usually was. _She really was a nice girl_ , he despaired. He really could grow to like her if she would ever lay off...

After some time had passed since their arrival, Kip was beginning to think that his first case would be nothing of consequence. But it was when the two of them were investigated an open area in the great expanse of stacked and broken crates, scrap metal, and various other debris of a bygone era that he saw it.

At first he had written it off as a simple puddle, the leaking roof adding to the dank atmosphere of decay and abandonment that was beginning to give him the willies. The dim light of night allowed the shadows to cast their darkness over them, spotting the entire floor. It had caught his eye momentarily, but he quickly dismissed it and moved on. It was only when he had walked past a large metal pipe that snaked its way to the roof that the still-bright hue immediately caught his undivided attention. A lump caught heavily in his throat. _Blood!_

He stared stupidly at it for a moment, as though his own eyes were faking the dark, crimson smear that streaked across the grey metal. His gaze was drawn downward with the direction of the stain, and it was then that he shockingly realized his error. A crimson trail wound drunkenly across the floor, leaving a dashed line like those on a treasure map. Unlike the ones he had made as a child, however, the ink that had been used here was anything but innocent. Halfway across the line was another mark in the form of a larger puddle that appeared splattered. He followed the trail with his gaze until it rested on a wooden door across the building, rusty metal hinges groaning eerily against the cool evening breeze. Whoever it was had left through that door.

Suddenly, he heard crunching footsteps behind him and jumped as an elbow was obtrusively poked into his ribs.

"Find something? Lieutenant says we should head back…"

Anderson's eyes met Keefer's twinkling ones, only to see their deep brown depths sober at his expression. She frowned questioningly at his paled skin.

"Look at that," Anderson said, pointing at the crimson trail.

She frowned again, which seemed to him to be a look of inconvenience rather than genuine concern. Crouching on the ground, she tested the stain with a gloved fingertip, pulling back when the scarlet liquid came off to stain the black of her glove. She sat back on her heels for a moment, as if contemplating the situation, before straightening up with a purposeful shrug of the shoulders.

"Oh it's probably nothing. Some animal probably dragged something into the building…"

Anderson started.

"All this blood, Keefer? I don't think so!"

A call came from behind them, indicating that the detachment was gathering together to head back to headquarters. Engines came to life with muted roars, the blue and red lights ceasing their blinding flashes.

"Well whose do you think it is then? Batman's?" she quipped, raising a quizzical eyebrow in his direction. "Don't worry, rookie, we checked the entire place… Whoever it was, they're not here anymore."

As he reluctantly followed her retreating figure back to the police vehicles, he mused that maybe he was as green as they said. After all, Mandy had years of quality experience to draw from. If it really was something to be concerned about, she would know. _In time_ , he figured to himself, _he would learn these things too_. She did have a good point on one particular aspect of Gotham, though.

" _Batman bleeds? Yeah- right!_ "

* * *

 **Note:** I am actually serious about prompt suggestions... I haven't really figured out the next three myself, so if you'd like to see something in particular, don't be shy!


	3. Pearls Before Swine

**Title:** Pearls Before Swine  
 **Prompt:** none  
 **Word Count:** 100  
 **Summary:** Hey look, a drabble! Inspired by the _Dark Knight_ soundtrack. The title is kinda a play on words (because I'm funny that way)...

* * *

The night had been cold, the evidence of a day's rain. Puddles rippled in the darkened alleyways of Gotham City. Its inhabitants hurried about, eyes flicking upward hoping to catch a glimpse of a pointed shadow cast down from the foggy clouds above. No one knew of the petty jewel thief abandoning his spoils and running for his life down one such alley, crystalline droplets hurled into flight by his frantic footfalls. And no one knew that, wreathed in the shadows, the Dark Knight had stopped to stoop down and delicately lift each pearl from its place in the mud.


	4. Two-Faced

**Title:** Two-Faced  
 **Prompt:** split personality  
 **Word Count:** 100  
 **Summary:** I literally just sat down and wrote out exactly 100 words. How is that actually possible (for me)?! Anyway, you could consider this AU. Just Harvey tellin' it like it is!  
 **A/N:** No, I wouldn't be doing drabbles forever ;) Longer fic coming soon!

* * *

Bruce couldn't understand how he had found out, how his most guarded secret had been exposed to the one man who didn't need to know. Harvey had never been one to pull back punches. He wasn't afraid to say things no one else would. So when the cowl was lifted from his face to reveal his true form, Harvey spoke the words everyone who knew Bruce had thought but had yet dared to speak.

"You think you're better than me? We're the same, Bruce, you and I. The only difference is that you can take one of your faces off…"


	5. His Place

**Title:** His Place  
 **Prompt (#2):** falling asleep  
 **Word Count:** 1380  
 **Summary:** A sink full of dishes and a zoned out master encourages a lot of time in thought, as Alfred discovers.  
 **A/N:** Well, I can now say that this is my favorite piece so far! I absolutely _adore_ the relationship between Bruce and Alfred. I'm thinking these two will need to have more stories in the future...  
 **EDIT(!):** After reading this entry again, I'm really tempted to start a separate (probably fluffy) drabble series on Alfred's dishwashing encounters (the idea amuses me, don't ask haha). Sound interesting? Let me know!

* * *

There were times when Alfred Pennyworth wished he had a _normal_ master. While there was no doubt in his mind that being the butler to the Wayne estate offered infinite benefits and joys, he often mused when the nights were gloomy and the bat signal was mirrored menacingly against the foggy night sky, over what it would be like to serve a man who was not a regular human being by day and a masked vigilante by night.

What must it be like to go about lives that were filled with only the concerns of those who knew themselves to be mere mortals?

He could not truly imagine what it would be like to simply chauffeur his employer to a gathering deemed simply for "business" without having a hand constantly poised to unlock the hidden compartment that held Batman's suit. He often envied the others parked in their masters' sleek vehicles, a good novel propped against the steering wheel or their hats titled against their eyes in order to catch a few extra winks of sleep.

To be ordinary: what most people dreaded to be classified as he could only muse as a blessed hope in the realm of life's possibilities.

It was on one of those gloomy nights that his mind wandered away from his current task, eyes panning beyond the window panes across the frost-encrusted, rolling lawn of the estate. He recalled over that sink full of suds and silverware the time he visited a four day businessmen's convention with Bruce. After listening to another manservant rant on for nearly an hour to him about how monotonous his life and occupation was, Alfred had the sudden and terribly unprofessional urge to suggest they trade employers.

After all, boredom was to him a foreign concept he had yet to dabble in, and one that held a certain amount of allure. In his mind, the opportunity to experiment with that kind of situation would come soon enough in his old age.

And heaven spare him the day when Batman is found lying lifeless in some nameless gutter and his purpose for living would no longer be walking this earth. Perhaps then his blood pressure would finally return to normal and he would not worry eternally over the next possible catastrophe, but at what price would that be accomplished? In reality then, the thought of being as bored and despondent as his associate had been brought no appeal whatsoever. At least his life held very few profoundly dull moments…

In all honesty, he really _was_ proud of the man he had been required to raise for twelve years, despite the disadvantages Bruce's little nighttime habit had brought down upon them. He definitely was not the hero Gotham City deserved, of that Alfred knew for certain.

So when the time came, as it often did, for him to follow Batman's transponder signal with a quart of blood and a transfusion unit, Alfred did not grumble to himself as he was often tempted to do when the weight of his position lay heavy upon his shoulders.

This was what the Heavens had destined for him, and who was he to argue? He had made a promise to the dearly departed to care for whom they valued the most if the time ever came. And at this particular moment in time, said charge happened to be safely shrouded behind the walls of the bat cave, nose buried in a computer screen and police reports. Another mystery was at hand and the world's greatest detective was on the case yet again.

This detective, Alfred mused to himself after a glance at the analog clock ticking methodically on the wall opposite, would be ready for his nightly pot of tea right about now. A flick of the wrist and a whistling kettle later, a polished tray with delicate, creamy china was clinking merrily against each other as the butler descended down the dark depths to his master's lair. He could never quite get over the sensation caused by the rush of dank, cold air that always brushed past his face when the grandfather clock hiding the entrance slid away.

It was a sobering reminder of what lay below; a lifetime of pain that was being put to a greater task than wrenching at a man's heart. Below that grandiose façade that was the Manor lay the true world of Bruce Wayne; an empty, often barren shell concealing a grander purpose than just a billionaire businessman with too much time on his hands and more money than sense.

Alfred reached the computer station, setting the tea tray down with practiced grace. Had his mind been focused completely on his task, he might have sooner noticed the lack of acknowledgment he had received from his master. Opening his mouth to make his presence known to the engrossed man, his eyes came to rest on the Dark Knight of Gotham City.

While he had initially thought the man was so focused on his case that he did not notice his presence beside him (as often was the case), Alfred was startled in surprise to find that the City's vigilante hero was leaving a small puddle of drool on the desk, head resting on folded arms. Blue eyes scanned the form of one who had been coined his "surrogate son". Said "son" was, as Alfred noticed with a shake of the head, still dressed in his chosen costume, the dark symbol of a bat emblazoned across his chest like a brand upon a steer. (1)

He reasoned after a moment's reflection that this was one of the very few times that Bruce, who tried so very hard to be immortal, had given in to his body's pleas. Setting the tray down with nary a sound, he reminded himself that _who was he to deny the man the rest he so desperately needed?_

But despite the apparent security that the cave brought to the man, Alfred still could not imagine that his master's position nor the chill of the cave itself afforded for comfortable sleeping arrangements. He had also learned, after years of trial involving much error, that waking the man in order to send him to bed always garnered bad results. Said results usually involved a sharp and lofty quip about the importance of the work of Batman and that his sleeping brought no justice to the persecuted.

So Alfred, being the wiser man that he was now, turned on heel and made the trek to the surface world to retrieve a microfleece blanket for the stubborn man in his charge. And when he consequently laid said blanket around Bruce's hunched form he had the urge, as he sometimes did when late nights fell upon them, to smooth the blanket's wrinkles across those impossibly burdened shoulders which continued to quake even during rest.

His master was still, in his eyes, often the child he had known over twenty years ago. In those moments when the grief had been heavy upon his young master's features, Alfred had awkwardly tried to comfort the desolate youngster who had been so drastically launched into a maturity beyond his years.

Originally, the thought of being the child's sole guardian and parental figure had sent panic knifing through Alfred's heart. Heaven only knew the depth of his inadequacies in that particular department. But when he had looked into those crystal blue eyes swimming with stricken tears, nothing could have quelled his determination to try as hard as he knew how to be the child's support. The boy had deserved that much, after all…

So, in that moment, despite the fact that Bruce Wayne was no longer the eight year old orphan he had once been, the aging butler still left a parting, tender pat on the man's shoulder before he ascended that stone staircase another time.

And before Alfred's hand had even risen to silence his routine and on-the-dot alarm clock the next morning, he noticed the freshly set tea tray on his nightstand with a neatly folded blanket resting at its ten o'clock.

Despite all the complaints he oftentimes thought he had about his master and his master's mission, Alfred Pennyworth knew, deep down, that he would not trade his place in a thousand lifetimes.

* * *

(1) Referencing the dialogue from _Cold Comfort_ when Mr. Freeze invades Wayne Manor. A great scene!


	6. Bruce, the Butler

**Title:** Bruce, the Butler  
 **Prompt:** none  
 **Word Count:** 706  
 **Warning:** This is an angst-less fic! Heaven forbid! Seriously though, small spoilers for Batman Beyond "Rebirth".  
 **Summary:** Bruce the butler... er, doctor! More like, Bruce plays Alfred for a night. So, this isn't B:TAS era, but I'm just having too much fun getting back into Batman Beyond again! Enjoy a random little fic inspired by my latest binge watch!

* * *

It was rather ironic, really. It seemed only mere moments ago that it was he who sat on the table with the faithful one he called friend tending the nightly tokens of gratitude dealt to him by Gotham's rogues. During the subsequent passing years, those often nightly procedures had almost become routine, almost a dance that both men had done without conscious effort.

If only he could see him now! Alfred Pennyworth would probably be laughing aloud at the sight of his master participating in the one task he had loathed to participate in the most and had tried his best to ignore despite its necessity. Perhaps he had thought Bruce incapable performing it on his own, however wrong that assumption was...

But he was proving him wrong now. It wasn't as though he had enjoyed the all-too-often situation involving him leaving a dotted crimson line from the bat mobile to the computer station on Alfred's "nice clean floor". His mind had always been too busy discerning his latest case to worry about mere flesh wounds, though Alfred made a point to clarify that bullet holes and broken bones did not accurately fit that description.

Now, he was putting all those years of patient (and sometimes not) submission to and observation of Alfred's handiwork to good use. What he had not learned to do firsthand he had observed and experienced from the very best of impromptu field surgery.

When Bruce's ideologies on first-aid eventually became known to friend and foe alike, he quickly became inoculated against the subtle jabs that had been made about his butler's varied tasks, especially the ones that seemed to be a bit... patronizing.

However, despite the snide comments made by the uninformed, Alfred had never waited for a command or even a suggestion, medical tray and sutures often in hand before the bat mobile's tires had even passed the threshold. Bruce had, in the privacy of his own thoughts, termed Alfred's impeccable timing as his "sixth sense". Who was he to interfere with a man's innate mental workings? And if that meant a certain amount of scrutiny and good-natured poking and prodding after evenings gone awry, he did not question it.

He had always mused that _soldiers are not surgeons_ , and he himself could never sew up his own wounds with the finesse that his friend possessed, nor did he believe he could do the same for another. It was that notion that deterred him from the task during the many years he dawned the cape and cowl.

Yet here he was, doing the very thing he had tried to avoid all too many times for a boy trying his level best to be a man through the crimson wings of the Batsuit. The flitting thought had crossed his mind if Alfred would have approved of his renewed efforts to resurrect the Batman. Heaven only knew if this young Terry McGuiness would rise to the towering mantle he had accepted, even coveted enough to steal for himself.

Right now, he was responding to Bruce's treatment in a manner not entirely dissimilar to the way said soldier-turned-surgeon had done all those years ago. If Bruce were honest with himself, this experience was bringing about a greater sense of sympathy for his loyal butler's often deterred efforts, and he thanked heaven above that the man had never taken all those threats given under the knife too seriously.

An angry grunt escaped Terry's clenched teeth as his torso, and freshly cracked ribs, were cinched tighter within their wrappings.

"Watch it!"

As Bruce's instructor in the dubious interpretation of the "healing arts" had done those many similar times in days gone by, so he did now. Perhaps Alfred's _particular_ sense of sympathy had rubbed off on him after all… A tightening jerk off the wrist and the young protégé added a hurried, "… _Mister Wayne!_ "

The elderly man straightened and stepped back from the steel operating table, observing his handiwork under the white lights. Not a bad job, really. He was certain Alfred would be quite proud, considering the circumstances.

The mass of unruly dark hair, wrapped ribs, and temper that was hunched on the table's surface might have had a different opinion on the matter.


	7. Lessons

**Title:** Lessons  
 **Prompt:** none  
 **Word Count:** 150  
 **Summary:** Batman Beyond again! Companion drabble-and-a-half to "Bruce, the Butler" and no, he isn't sending Terry flying with cracked ribs... Just Terry being Terry and Bruce being Bruce. After all, they do have something *cough* in common.

* * *

A lull passed between them, each deep in his own thoughts after another long night. Bruce decided to take the moment for the opportunity it was.

"I saw the vid-link... Your style needs work."

He had expected Terry to be angry at the shedding of light on his weaknesses, a defense mechanism obviously developed over years of necessity. But he was not prepared for the intensity of the hot flames of defiance that smoldered in the back of grey eyes which so mirrored his own, their depths almost daring Bruce to question the newfound authority the image of the Bat had given him.

"And I suppose _you're_ gonna fix that?"

Consider it an old man's sentimentality (or perhaps a growing sense of senility), but Bruce couldn't contain the indulgent smile of self-satisfaction at the young man's indignant squawk of protest when a certain wooden cane sent his feet reaching skyward.


	8. The Unwelcome Guest

**Title:** The Bat and the Butler  
 **Prompt (#4):** Phobia  
 **Word Count:** 2,333  
 **Summary:** Young Bruce Wayne lives with a terror no one has dared to tame, but a certain butler may discover he might have the solution.  
 **A/N:** I have only just realized how strong the _Batman Begins_ vibes are in this one, totally unintentional as they are! Think of this one as my take on the first defining moment in Alfred and Bruce's relationship. Oh, and something to ponder while you read, this takes place two years before that fateful night in the alley.

* * *

The young son of Thomas and Martha Wayne was a rather unextraordinary child, as their butler had soon come to discover as the days passed. This was not to say that the child had no personality nor had any fault of character. He was rambunctious as all little boys are, but seemed to prefer reflective thought over intense response and took comfort in observation rather than taking action.

There was one particular aspect that had grown most strikingly clear in the little boy's ever evolving personality, and the young master took every opportunity given him to make it known. Young Bruce Wayne was terrified of bats. It was not merely a childish fear conjured out of a desire for attention or thanks to any imparted imagination given to him by his peers. No, this was an inborn phobia that bordered on an obsession.

The boy was prone to fearfulness as the new parents had quickly discovered, and while that sensitivity conveyed an empathetic soul, it also gifted the child with an easily impressionable mind. But this fear of anything remotely bat-like caused many an emotional uproar both in and out of the Wayne family manor, much to everyone's universal dismay.

His mother was convinced the fear had been conceived in his babyhood, when they had found a large brown bat flapping frantically through the nursery to the petrified cries of a young baby Bruce. They had discerned that the creature had mistakenly crawled through the window, which had been cracked open to let in the spring evening breeze.

Despite the animal's hasty retreat through said opened window at the end of a broomstick brandished by Thomas Wayne, his son was then inconsolable for hours afterward. How does one explain to an infant the irrationality of his fears toward a mere animal?

Yet throughout every stage of their son's subsequent development, each seemed to be punctuated with another frightening encounter that only drove the phobia deeper and deeper into the boy's mind. Alfred was not completely convinced that the frenzied response that always accompanied another sighting had not evolved into a bit of a habit for the child, though he would never breathe his suspicions to a living soul. It was his Master and Mistress' child after all, and who was he fooling if he did not admit his own growing fondness for the lad.

And so it was that the butler kept a steady eye ever open for another one of their continual winged visitors that the old house often harbored. Though the manor was kept in pristine condition by owner and staff alike, they could not seem to escape the little freeloaders, and Bruce payed the heavier price. Alfred had eventually deduced that the creatures must have been coming in from somewhere inside the manor, though he never attempted to find out exactly where.

So whenever the wails of the usually mild-mannered child carried across the manor's halls, it was always assumed that another unwanted guest was making an appearance and the butler would set out with his butterfly net to do a little relocation.

However, those nights of terror and unbidden fears were soon to change.

The midmorning sunlight drifted cheerily through the stately parlor windows as though it were personally announcing another lovely summer day. The butler had just settled his young charge down with a picture book and his most cherished toy (a black shepherd-like stuffed dog) and begun to tidy up the parlor when it happened. Fortunately, for Alfred's sake, the boy's parents had always been nearby to comfort the child whenever an upsetting episode had occurred.

Unfortunately, his master was currently at his practice seeing patients and his mistress had gone out into the city for an afternoon amongst those in her social circle. While Alfred was very much accustomed to caring for the child, as the life of the elite held little time for much quality family life, he still had not been able to overcome his emotional clumsiness around the child. It was not that his heart held no love for children, quite the opposite.

Though he had done many things: diffusing diplomatic disasters, becoming a successful British agent, and overseeing one of Gotham's most prominent families, raising a child was definitely not part of his repertoire.

He had left the room for a mere moment to fetch some furniture polish when the blood-curdling scream shook the very walls, not to mention the butler's nerves. The can of polish nearly fell from the man's hand as he raced back into the room, imagination running wind with possibilities as to what could have caused his charge's outburst. He stopped dead in the doorway at the sight of Bruce still on the floor, small arms wrapped tightly over his dark, tousled head, cheeks streaming with freshly fallen tears.

And overhead, its wings beating silently in flight, was another brown bat. Upon a better look, Alfred deduced this particular specimen was probably the runt-iest he had yet to lay eyes on. In fact, it looked like a child's pet hamster with wings, unlike the hulking counterparts they had encountered in the past. The butler even surprised himself as the momentary and illogical thought drifted through his mind that the creature was mildly endearing in its fearful flitting around the window panes, longingly looking for a means of escape.

Despite his own personal fascination, he had a more important task at hand. His young master had now crumpled closer to the carpeted flooring, his black stuffed dog clutched desperately to his chest.

"Mr. Pennyworth," the boy cried in a high and cracked timbre, striking blue eyes peering over the arm still wrapped around his head. "Make it go away."

Almost instantly the reply of "Yes, Master Bruce" came unbidden to Alfred's lips, his duty dictating his almost unconscious response. Yet he paused, looking into the eyes of a child who was so very afraid of something he had yet to understand; a child who did not truly need a servant to do his duty, to take the fearful creature away, but instead needed someone, anyone, to take away the fear inside of his own mind. An overwhelming emotion he had yet to decipher overcame the butler's heart as the bat continued to dip and dive through the air above them. The boy whimpered again.

Four strides and the older man was bent on one knee next to the heap that was the boy, hands closing gently around the child's quaking shoulders. It was then that the butler began to speak unlike he ever had to the one who had been his charge for these last six years.

"I _am_ sorry, sir, but I cannot make the creature go away forever."

"Why not," the boy asked desperately, head jerking up at Alfred's confession. "You always do."

"Yes," Alfred responded with a small smile, watching another tear track down the child's face. "But I won't always be able to take them away for you."

The boy's eyes immediately clouded with more tears at the words that had reached his ears, fear dancing behind the confusion in the steely blue depths. It was then that Alfred realized he no longer heard the frantic wingbeats of their current unrequested guest, and a turn of his head ascertained that the creature had grown weary and had landed on one of the long drapes that hung pulled back from the window panes.

An idea took shape in his mind, and gently guiding the child's shoulders into a reluctant standing position, he took the boy's hand in his.

"Come, sir, you and I will remove the creature together…"

Instantly, Bruce's eyes widened almost comically inside the round face, panic causing his small body to writhe in an effort to remove his hand and wrist from Alfred's strong, yet gentle grip. His head began to whip from side to side in an emphatic gesture of disagreement, his feet planted firmly to the carpeted floor.

"No, no, no," the boy chanted, his voice rising steadily in pitch as his desperation grew when he could not extricate his wrist.

" _Please_ ," he finally begged after his struggles came to no affect, eyes staring intensely into Alfred's. "I don't want to!"

Again the butler knelt on the floor in front of the child, his hands moving back to the boy's shoulders. He looked kindly into the boy's worried gaze, watching the orbs flit back and forth searching for some semblance of security. Although the child's words begged that he be indulged, the emotion swimming within his eyes begged quite the opposite. Alfred could only interpret it as the plea for help and understanding that it was.

"Bruce," Alfred asked gently, momentarily realizing this to be the first time he had called the child only by name. "Would you like to not be afraid anymore?"

The child bent his head at long last, two teardrops falling from his shielded eyes to moisten the carpet. "Yes…"

"Then you must let me help you."

It took some time for the two to make their way over to the drape where the bat had taken sanctuary. Every few feet the boy would stop, the phobic fear causing his mind and body to flee in repulsion. But the butler remained at Bruce's side, hand-in-hand, patiently, gently encouraging the child onward toward the key to unlocking the fear from his mind; the key in the form of the creature he had unwittingly grown to despise.

When the ground between the three beings in the room had finally closed, the boy could not look upon the creature, instead burying his face in the butler's suit jacket. Alfred, thanking the heavens he had not taken off his silver polishing gloves, reached out to try and pick up the tiny creature.

In any other circumstance, he would never have dared to touch the creature with his hands, even his own mild repulsion reaching a limit. However, there were some things bigger than his own personal disgusts, and the instinct toward the situation dictated that he show the child the needlessness for his fear.

Yet as his fingers reached to brush the fur of the creature, the animal opened wide its small mouth, white teeth flashing, and let out a frightened, high-pitched squeak. The boy burrowed into his side flinched at the alien sound, letting out another small whimper into the fabric of Alfred's jacket. The butler's brows furrowed in resolution. He mustn't lose the progress they had made!

It was at that moment when greater insight struck him and he quickly pounced upon it like a cat upon the proverbial mouse.

"Master Bruce," he spoke softly to the tousled head under his arm. "Look."

The child slowly raised his head, still very much embedded in Alfred's side. The blue eyes met gradually met the small black, beady eyes of the brown bat hanging on the window drape. Alfred again reached out a single finger, causing the animal to again squeak warningly. Bruce flinched.

"Look, sir," Alfred repeated. "The creature is as afraid of you as you are of it!"

A moment passed between the boy and the bat as they assessed each other's gaze. The butler could see a light begin to flicker in the child's eyes, though dimly. There was hope yet!

Alfred continued on, "Can you imagine being in a strange place all alone, like this little fellow is? I must say he looks too afraid himself to want to hurt you, don't you think?"

The boy tilted his head as if contemplating the idea, then nodded in agreement. He then shuffled sheepishly away from the butler's side and looked up at him from underneath long, dark eyelashes.

"Mr. Pennyworth?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Shouldn't he be with his mommy and daddy where he's not scared? I think he thinks we're too big and scary…"

Mr. Pennyworth let out a sigh he did not know he was holding. There was the child's inherently soft heart showing itself again, and this time, it was very much welcomed. If the boy could replace his fear with compassion and understanding, perhaps he could banish his own fears for good. The key to his emotions was now on its way to being in the rightful play: the hand of the beholder.

"Master Bruce," Alfred replied with a fond smile and a pat of the child's shoulder. " _That_ … is an excellent idea."

~oOo~

When the Mistress of Wayne Manor returned to said home after an afternoon luncheon and a much needed catching up with her companions, she did not expect to meet her son and their butler standing out on the green expanse that was the front lawn, both beaming up at the blue, cloud dotted sky as if something very enamoring were flying through its endless spaces.

She could not understand why her butler had quietly laid one hand on her son's shoulder and spoke something in the direction of the child's ear as the boy handed him the grey fleece blanket he had been holding in both hands. To whatever Alfred Pennyworth had said, Bruce had beamed a sunny smile in the man's direction and laughed softly.

Both Martha and Thomas Wayne could not understand why, after the fateful day that neither of them knew it to be, their boy had from then on begun to make a habit of following their butler around the manor, either yammering on about whatever he had done that day, or perhaps just sitting in the kitchen with milk and chocolate chip cookies in hand and watching the man do the dishes.

What had caused the sudden fascination, they would never know.


	9. A Gift

**Title:** A Gift  
 **Word Count:** 260  
 **Warning:** Spoilers for the ending of the episode "Cat Scratch Fever"! And some character liberties...  
 **Summary:** Drabble inspired by a long roadtrip and homesickness for my own kitties. While the episode itself was not nearly as dramatic as I allude to, I reacted to it strongly because I'm like Selina in a way. I love animals almost more than people! Having someone give me back a beloved pet would mean a lot.

 **A/N:** While I doubt this is probably what they had in mind, this one's for thoughts-of-joy-dreams-of-love. Thanks for the kind review and the suggestion! :)

* * *

No one truly understood her love for the creatures, at least not to the extent with which she held them close to her heart. Sure, people say they love their pets, perhaps even consider them an extension of their human families. Yet she felt differently.

They were her confidants, her comforters; when she had no place to go, when her childhood home had been filled with the raging bellows of her father after yet another night at the bar, she would run down the clover-dotted field to the hay barn and allow the tears to fall in the presence of the few creatures on this earth who she felt cared.

Isis had been all that remained of those days, now long buried as unspoken ghosts of her past. Throughout both the shameful and proud times in her life, the sleek black cat had stood an enduring and understanding companion on her highest and lowest days.

So when the cat disappeared from her side that fateful night, she could not help but feel a poignant piece of her heart had been lost with her pet.

After a dark shadow descended from the sky above and left her the best gift she had yet to receive shrouded in a brown basket, she could not quell the rare tears that spilled onto the obsidian fur of the animal that meant so much to her.

And for a moment, the black flowing cape disappearing into the night only brought a found and genuine smile to her face. Perhaps he was not heartless after all...


	10. Mantle

**(!) IMPORTANT NOTE:** The story that originally was taking this chapter number (The Ties that Bind) has been made into a stand-alone instead! Go check it out on my profile!

 **Title:** Mantle  
 **Word Count:** 162 (because 150 is old news...and I'm lazy)

 **A/N:** More Batman Beyond! While this is self-explanatory, you could say its also a shameless plug for my BB one-shot "Never Easy". Reading that first would give this drabble-and-a-half a lot more meaning. I wish Dick and Terry had screen time together (other than the Batman Beyond 2.0 comics, which I didn't care for)...

* * *

Terry's gaze slowly rose to meet a similarly crystal pair, his expression swimming with more emotion than could be spoken yet the elder man could immediately understand. Extending both arms and the article cradled within them, Terry swallowed thickly and momentarily turned his gaze to gather support from his wife beside him.

Setting his expression into one of solemnness, he relinquished the most honored of gifts into the hands of its privileged caretaker who, upon seeing what had been intended for him from the beginning, could not withhold the mist from his eyes even if he tried.

"In the will, Bruce said he wanted you to have this."

The cowl, the mantle of the Batman, now lay in Dick Grayson's arms, a symbol of a long forgotten era from a lifetime ago.

With a cracking voice to match the two people standing before him with melancholy, watery smiles, he voiced his thanks.

He would treasure it more than they could ever know…


	11. Pancakes

**Title:** Pancakes  
 **Word Count:** 110  
 **Prompt:** The last panel on p. 23 of Batman: Gotham Adventures #60  
 **Summary:** A drabble inspired directly from the art mentioned above. It's a wonderful piece of art in itself; check it out!

 **A/N:** I know another wimpy drabble is probably not what those of you who read this were hoping for, but's it all I got and all I will have for quite a while...  
Why? Because college. 'Nough said.

* * *

What skin that was not covered in bruises and bandages were now sticky with flapjack batter, but Bruce did not care.

What had once been one of his best aprons was now stained beyond the possibility of laundering, but Alfred did not care.

When the final product of Bruce's valiant attempt was divvied out amongst their plates, not one of them cared if the chef had innocently mistaken baking soda for baking powder and the resulting pastries were lifeless and bitter.

They were _laughing_ , they were _happy_ , and most important of all, no one was _alone_ any longer.


	12. To Love and Lose

**Title:** To Love and Lose  
 **Word Count:** 1455  
 **Warnings:** This (including my a/n) has spoilers for the New Batman Adventures episode "Chemistry". While it does also reference Mask of the Phantasm, there are no direct spoilers, just hintings.  
 **Summary:** Dick had not taken Bruce's promise, nor his newfound love, seriously. But all it took was one accidental invasion of privacy for him to wonder, had he been mistaken?  
A "missing scene" style fic.

 **A/N:** I re-watched "Chemistry" and decided that the ending was way too abrupt for my taste. I mean seriously, who would just walk away from that and be totally at ease like nothing was lost, especially considering that he obviously loved her? Poor Bruce can't just catch a darn break. So I thought I'd at least show from someone else's point-of-view (in this case, Dick's) that he obviously _w_ _ouldn't_ be A-O.K. And then I was listening to the MOTP soundtrack while writing this and got totally rammed right in the feels. Such gorgeous music!

It also made me realize that Susan was the only other woman besides Andrea that Bruce actually proposed to (at least in the Animated Universe and in my knowledge). Food for sad thought.

* * *

He'd given it a month….

Sure, when Barbara had called him out on his prediction, made almost as if he were thinking aloud and not intentionally creating conversation, Dick Grayson had made it clear he was referring to the mantle of the Bat and not the marriage. Despite his pointed attempt to clarify the meaning of his words, however, he could not help but feel that perhaps he really _was_ referring to union between the man who had raised him and the strange woman they barely knew. (1) For some reason Dick had yet to define in his own mind, he found himself just flat-out disliking the woman from the very beginning.

It was not as if she had done anything that had prompted him to feel the way he did, in fact, it was the complete opposite; _nothing_ she did was ever displeasing. Besides, Susan had barely spoken to him or to Barbara or Tim except in polite conversation, her energies and attentions solely focused on Bruce and hanging on his every word. It was as if he were her entire world, her only reason for living. Perhaps Dick just had a cynical view of women lately, but there was something that just seemed too _perfect_ about his guardian's new fiancé. In his experience, _no one_ was ever _that_ selfless…

The whole situation and its timing seemed too rotten to be coincidence, but no one was asking his opinion on the matter, so it ventured no further than his passing discussion with Barbara. Instead, despite his apprehension over the whole affair, he attended the wedding and put on his best happy face for Bruce's sake, drowning his misgivings and cynicism in the only good draft he could scrounge up at a party consisting of fruity cocktails and, in some cases, even fruitier company.

He was truly not surprised when Bruce returned from his honeymoon cruise thirteen days early _without_ his new bride, instead with Batgirl and Robin in tow; the cape and cowl he had once forsaken again shrouding those especially brooding features.

He _was_ surprised to hear, however, that the now former Susan Wayne had turned out to be merely one of Ivy's test tube concoctions come to life in plant form. It took all his good manners and Grayson family tact to not elbow Barb in the ribs for a much-needed "I told you so". He was instead astonished by the level of nonchalance with which his guardian and mentor seemed to shove off the whole ordeal despite the gloominess his companions held toward his shattered prospects. Dick found himself being reminded of a time when he had once called the man out on his "stone cold heart" and he now wondered if he not truly been that far wrong. (2)

They all had expected him to be, after his apparent excitement (his lightheartedness could only be interpreted thusly) and the forfeiting of his more _important_ commitments all for the sake of matrimony, more _upset_ by the turn of events. But Bruce Wayne, and thus Batman, carried on as if nothing had happened.

Or so they all thought.

It had been a week since the wedding and subsequent sinking of Bruce's "marital bliss" (both literally and metaphorically), and for once in many a great while, each one of them was roaming above ground and about the manor during daylight hours. Tim had been pestering Dick all morning about playing a few rounds of outdoor tennis, as apparently "Bruce is always too busy to bother and Alfred says he doesn't trust my serve." So, the elder had nothing better to do than humor his younger partner, knowing full well what it felt like being the only child in this endless, winding manor; it had often felt so… empty.

Also, as per the current Boy-Wonder's request (well, more like pleading), Dick had popped into the study to see if Bruce, who had for all intents and purposes barricaded himself inside for the duration of the afternoon, would want to join them. He knew the answer he was most likely to receive, unless by some miracle of the heavens the man might actually allow himself to have an _enjoyable_ hour or so away from his brooding time. It was unlikely, but a promise is a promise.

Knocking on the heavy mahogany door that closed off the study from the rest of the world garnered no response (big surprise), so he decided to stick his head around the corner and at least try to get the man's attention before he gave up entirely. When he did so, his query was cut off before it even had time to form in his throat, the sight before him causing him to stare in stunned silence.

Bruce was sitting at his desk, sweater-covered shoulders and arms hunched over its dark surface, his chin and jaw rested in the palm of a cupped hand. What most intrigued Dick was not the soft reflection in Bruce's eyes, which had he looked closer he would have instantly recognized as the beginnings of barely controlled tears, but what Bruce was dangling from his other hand and gently swinging from side to side on its long, golden chain. A gold locket?

It seemed to have some sort of heart-shaped carvings on the side; Dick had seen it before, but no one had ever bothered to tell him the story that must have accompanied it, not even Alfred. Whatever it was, it must have held a lot of sentimental value for his ever-alert mentor to become so totally lost in thought that his surroundings were entirely forgotten. It was almost as if he were entranced by the very thing, his gaze following it as it swung gently from his hand.

A quick surveillance of Bruce's desk revealed that, though littered with various paperwork, two framed photographs lay atop all else. Dick did not need to look very hard to recognize one of the photographs as one that had been taken at the wedding. The other seemed to be a portrait of a redhaired woman he did not recognize with a pair of the most striking blue eyes he had ever seen.

It was then, at sight of the photographs and the realization that accompanied them, that Dick felt sudden shame at having intruded what must have been a very private moment that he had no right to interfere with or even be witness to. It had never really occurred to Dick, considering the apparent ease with which Bruce seemed to shrug off the whole affair, that he might have sincerely _loved_ the woman. Despite all the warning signs that someone who was uninvolved could have easily detected, perhaps Bruce had been so innocently preoccupied that he had truly missed them. Truth be told, as hard as the man often tried to prove otherwise, he was _human_.

Maybe, Dick Grayson had been wrong.

It was then, as those thoughts were flitting through the young man's mind, that he was startled back into reality by an uncharacteristically loud, wet sniff coming from the direction of the desk, his eyes widening as he witnessed the man who was the Dark Knight quickly dash an angry, rebelling fist across his noticeably misted eyes. If the situation had been different, Dick might have considered getting his eyesight checked, or better still, waking himself up from this strange dream he was obviously having.

His better instincts, however, told him to leave the man undisturbed in the privacy of his own thoughts and he turned to leave as silently as he had approached; yet, something deep within an unknown corner of his heart told him to turn back around as he begun to close the door. Something told him that perhaps, just this one time, his mentor who favored the darkness and the aloneness should not be left to those things. _Every once in a while_ , Dick thought to himself as stepped into the room and cleared his throat gently to get the occupant's attention, _you just need to get out and enjoy the sunshine._

And so, Dick was surprised yet again that day (chalk it up as a day full of them), as the man accepted their invitation with an eagerness that caught him thoroughly off guard. Perhaps it was just his day to be proven wrong…

"Two against one," Tim had beamed at them as they approached on the lawn, an "I told you he would come" gleam flickering pointedly in his aquamarine eyes.

And for once, as Bruce effortlessly fielded the first return with a small laugh at Tim's miffed expression, Dick was more than happy to admit that, this time, it felt good to _not_ be right for a change.

* * *

(1) Referencing Barbara's quip of "You raised him…" to Bruce in the episode "You Scratch My Back".  
(2) Referencing the episode "Robin's Reckoning"


	13. Second Chances

**Title:** Second Chances  
 **Word Count:** 1,290  
 **Warning:** Contains major spoilers for the finale of the Batman Beyond 2.0 comics. Also, could probably stand better editing but hey, life's short!  
 **Summary:** Bruce and Dick both discover, one while bedridden and the other while standing vigil, that things _can_ change for the better.

 **A/N:** First off, let me just say this: I know. I know I said I didn't care for Batman Beyond 2.0. And I don't...ish. I still absolutely detest the handling of the Bruce/Babs romance, and the Justice Lords plot, while interesting, felt hard to follow.

But gosh darn it if they all aren't so great to watch interact again, especially with Dick getting a heaping helping of the spotlight for once! The artwork is neat and if the finale doesn't at least get you a wee bit choked up you might need to take your pulse... I enjoy it for what it is: the opportunity to see characters come back together around a common cause and to see some much needed batfamily healing/redemption take place.

So if you haven't read those comics first, this will make absolutely no sense to you. But to those that have read them, I say to you: enjoy and think of this as my interpretation of the ending.

EDIT: As of 12/17, per the suggestion of my reviewer, I did some more thorough editing and added some things.

* * *

The gift that was never his privilege to receive lay before him in the moment of stillness that followed when the two other occupants of the room left to tend to their own responsibilities. It seemed to represent itself almost tangibly in the now peacefully sleeping form of the elder, graying man he still looked upon as the child he had often literally taken under his wing so long ago.

Bruce could not remember the last time since they had shared the same physical space without the inevitable sparks flying, hurts forged over all those years finally severing what little bond had remained between them many years ago.

To say he did not deserve some of the animosity that Dick Grayson had held in his heart would have been the lie Bruce knew it to be; like every person on this earth, he had made mistakes, miscalculations, decisions in the heat of the moment that should have been left for later contemplation. And it was thanks to both age and frailty that Bruce had since been gifted with many a distraction-less, often cursed hour to watch his life, and his mistakes, pass by his mind's eye.

He could admit with truthful certainty, however, that he had come to regret what had happened between he and his ward. Sometimes, on the quiet winter evenings when the wind set the manor's aged frame to creaking and the empty halls were plagued with shadows, he would find himself jolted from those revelries, his mind tricking his ear into believing for a moment that the sound of a young boy's bubbling laughter was real; and he could not deny the pang that jarred his heart at the realization of its falsity no matter how hard he tried. It was as though those happier, brighter times were returning from the past to haunt his present.

Past attempts to reconcile what little remained of the kinship that had remained between them had each in their own ways been doomed to failure; he could remember a time when he had overheard Alfred speaking with Barbara, at a time before she too had left Bruce and his cause, "They're two incredibly stubborn people, Miss Gordon, and I fear _that_ will be their undoing..."

And so it was that, after his many unsuccessful attempts to repair the damage as only he knew how, Bruce had translated Dick's resistance and coldness for the sign that it apparently was and distanced himself appropriately. He could not deny the bitterness in his heart, however, toward the man's unforgiving attitudes. Yet there was nothing more he could think to do that could patch the bond they had once shared, respecting the young man's wishes by leaving him well enough alone.

So many years had now passed by them both eventful and not so, a large, integral portion of their lives had been spent apart that Bruce now found himself marveling at how positively _old_ his ward now looked as he sat at the man's bedside. It was almost as though the fresh-faced, cheerful lad Bruce had once known and the scarred man that lay before him still and quiet on the hospital bed where two entirely different entities. Had it really been that long since they had fought side-by-side, shared the same goals, and were, though Bruce's hardened heart was often reluctant to admit, a f _amily_?

As he sat next to his ward and son, Bruce took in every wrinkle and every scar, each a unique testament of how unkind Life had often been to their receiver, the silence of the room only permeated by the beeps of Dick's heart monitor. The near-death experience and the severe shock Dick's body had undergone from the electrocution certainly had not helped matters, his skin at long last finally waning from a similar color to the bedsheets.

But the man's creased features and graying temples only seemed an even greater indication of the time that Bruce could not help but feel had been wasted in favor of ego and pride. _That_ was truly why he had elected to first sit beside his adopted son while Barbara and Terry had left; he felt it was the first step toward making up for the time that had been lost. Moreover, his instincts could not deny that this was truly _his place_. In times past, he had ignored that instinct in favor of what he had deceived himself into believing was more important; he would not make the same mistake a third time. (1)

Bruce found himself wondering at the irony of the events that had brought them all to this point, that only in the moments when one watches the clutches of Death himself reach out to drag a loved one from this earth that the frivolity and triviality of every disagreement, every tie severed in bitterness came to blinding illumination.

When he had witnessed through the eyes of the batsuit the moment when the icy blue flash of electrical sparks danced through the dusk sky around them with blinding light, the seconds that passed like hours as he watched the boy he had raised sacrifice his own life for the life of the one person, the one cause, that had brought them all back together, there was one thing that became clear as crystal.

Life was _short_. Too short.

As he had watched with lungs frozen midbreath and tears streaming unbidden down his face as Terry's hands beat a desperate rhythm on Dick's chest to the tune of numbers counted in breathless pants, as Barbara nearly shrieked the dying man's name as she attempted to fill his lungs with her own precious air, Bruce's mind registered only one thought, "Not yet... _Please_ not yet."

There was so much, perhaps too much, to say, so much wasted time and untended wounds to make up for. He was not ready to say goodbye, even if it was through the eyes of another being projected onto a computer screen.

And in that moment when the man they had all thought had left them shook violently with a chest-racking yet life-restoring cough, Bruce Wayne made the Heavens one other promise: he would repair the damage between them if it was the last thing he did.

Sitting watch beside the man's bed in the silent moments that followed Barbara and Terry's exit was, he fervently hoped, the first step in attempting that process. Perhaps more symbolic than an effective means of taking that first step, but still one nonetheless. And at least in Terry McGuinness' eyes, it did not go unnoticed.

Dick Grayson, on the other hand, had not been gifted with the opportunity for the same contemplative silence as his guardian nor the presence of thought, his mind and body both entirely overtaxed to function as they ought. Yet despite the incredible bone-deep weariness that held both his conscious mind and physical body captive, Dick could still sense the exact moment when a strange warmth began to hover over his hand that was lying draped across his chest like a butterfly deciding where to land.

And nothing, not even a barely conscious, sleep-lulled mind, could have hindered the gentle smile that tugged at the corner of his lips and the minute, peaceful sigh that also escaped them when the strange warmth made itself known in a hand, vaguely recognizable yet somehow instantly comforting, enveloped his in a gentle yet strong grip.

It was true that "things change." But sometimes, it was for the better.

* * *

(1) For those who are curious, this references both Gotham Adventures #44 and the Joker incident highlighted in Hush Beyond*.  
*I know BB 2.0 aligns with the Animated Series and not the comics, but I'm improvising here.


	14. A Promise Kept

**Title:** A Promise Kept  
 **Word Count:** 1,182  
 **Warning:** Direct spoilers for my fic "The Ties that Bind". If you want this read to have the biggest impact, read TTTB first! If you don't wish to read that, this will probably make sense on its own, but the story behind it makes all the difference.  
 **Summary:** Dick Grayson may be many things, but never one who goes back on a promise. Especially not on _this_ night, not to _him_.

 **A/N:** This is an additional/sweeter resolution ending to my fic, "The Ties That Bind". It did not fit the mood of the fic itself, so it has been posted here. Like I said above, this could be read on its own and understood. But reading the story behind it will only (hopefully) make it better!

Just shameless batfam fluff/h/c and self-service, because I can ;)

* * *

One thing Dick knew for certain when his consciousness slid back into reality after crashing into the blackened realm of the exhausted. They needed new chairs, or at the very least, some new cushions. His back and neck were quick to voice their justified indignation at what they had been subjected to when he had unintentionally fallen asleep in the chair at Bruce's bedside.

The sound of the heart monitor filtering back into his hearing still beeped rhythmically, a companionable sound accompanied by the occasional hiss of oxygen being forced through the tubes still strapped to his guardian's nose.

Dick experimentally turned around in said wobbly chair only to reflexively catch the blanket that had been wrapped around his shoulders as it fell away. He paused momentarily in confusion, as _he_ surely had not had the foresight to bring a blanket with him when he had taken up the bedside vigil. As the realization came to him, he smiled and tucked the blanket away.

What would they do without Alfred, bless that man…

A quick glance at the batcomputer screen told of the true amount of time that had passed, Dick taking that moment to stretch the remaining kinks from his spine and survey the man whom he had opted to watch over despite it all.

While it was a heavy blow to his ego for him to admit it, he just could not leave the now-sleeping figure despite the living nightmare having past. Whether it was a misguided notion or not, he felt ever so slightly _responsible_ for the suffering Bruce had endured that fateful night.

So instead of returning to his own bed as he would have liked and sleeping off his aches and pains, Dick decided to spend the night sitting next to the man lying flat in a hospital gurney shrouded within the dank walls of the batcave instead. For this one night, Bruce did not deserve to be abandoned, especially not by _him_.

Speaking of the devil, the steadily-paced heart monitor trilled warningly as its patient's heartrate began to increase suddenly, consciousness filtering back into the poisoned man's mind. Dick jumped slightly at the unexpected warning, turning swiftly in his seat just in time to catch the older man's shoulders as they were heaved forward with surprising speed despite his condition, blue eyes swimming with a look of unmasked panic as they flew about, taking in the surroundings.

"Easy, Bruce," came the quick and kindly admonishment as the young man gently forced his stubborn mentor back into the receiving arms of the mattress. The man instantly sank back at Dick's touch with a lack of resistance that surprised even him.

Red, swollen lids widened with a light that Dick could tell was true recognition as Bruce's gaze dragged upwards with inestimable weariness to meet his own. Even when they had looked each other straight in the eyes only hours before (though it now seemed like another lifetime ago), the young man had sensed the absolute disorientation of the intelligent mind. It was as if the Batman had been awake for his own private nightmare, made inexorably real by Crane's toxin; and now, it was as though he had finally and truly awoken from it.

"Dick," came the tentative and, dare it be said, meek question, spoken with a grating voice that betrayed his body's true exhaustion. It was as though the man did not trust his own vision…

"Relax. You're home now," he answered with a small, reassuring smile as he watched Bruce sag into the inviting softness of his pillow at the words, the man's eyes turning an oddly soft cornflower color as they studied Dick's own. Little did Dick know that though the man's mind was still muddled, Bruce was not so foggy that he could not pick up on the young man's immediate reassurances and appreciate them for the olive branch that they were.

Truth be told, Bruce's reaction betrayed a soul overcome with unspeakable relief at seeing the subject of his living nightmares sitting to his left, very much in one whole piece and bearing that sunny smile that brought so much light into the often dark life he had chosen to live.

Dick found himself gazing in barely-concealed astonishment at how transparently the emotions were that ran across Bruce's face and the obvious lack of effort to keep his physical weariness at bay from another's gaze. The _relief_ and _gratitude_ and _affection_ paraded through the icy blue depths of the elder man's eyes in such a blatant display that the young man could not help but return a similar gaze no matter how foreign it seemed to look on his mentor's face.

This was an emotional display that Dick did not find unwelcome, however. Seeing that a true human heart still beat underneath the all-consuming mythos of the Dark Knight made his previous grievances all-the-more irrelevant.

Bruce must have really been in that bad a shape after all…

In fact, the puffy eyelids were beginning to droop significantly as the silence enveloped them, the dripping water from the cave, the heart monitor, and the occasional chirp of a bat in flight a not-unwelcome white noise as the two men simply appreciated each other's presence, a comfort that needed no conversation to confirm.

Yet the young man could still sense his guardian's underlying current of unease, as though he were afraid that by allowing his guard to drop, the hallucinations would rise and take hold of his mind yet again. And nothing could have halted the pang of empathy that pricked Dick's heart at the realization.

So, he would stay, regardless of whether or not his body was crying out to him for a warm bed and a good mattress, or his ego tried to convince him the receiver did not deserve his kindness. He needed to be _here_ ; _this_ was his place tonight.

Rising from the chair despite the questioning look he received from the man next to him, Dick made his way toward the stairs that ascended to the manor above them. If he was going to spend the rest of the night in the cave sitting in that cursed chair, then he would need some coffee. Strong, hot coffee…

He was no more than three paces from the makeshift hospital they had erected upon returning to the cave when he heard it. It was thanks to the remarkable Grayson family hearing and nothing else that he picked up on the barely audible question, a murmured inquiry that masked a much greater anxiety, a genuine desire for reassurance that he had no right to deny. The toxin had unearthed a part of Bruce's personality, a _humanity_ that continually caught Dick off guard every time it had immerged that night.

Yet somehow, its presence was...encouraging.

"Where are you going?"

Dick had stopped dead at the words, turning back to see thinly veiled concern pinching the drawn brows of the man who was the Batman. He tried to convey the sincerity in his words as he replied,

"I'll be back, Bruce. _I promise_ …"


	15. Baby Pictures

**Title:** Baby Pictures  
 **Word Count:** 2,100  
 **Warning:** Be aware, shameless (borderline crack-y) fluff is ahead. No angst, no drama, just Batfamily, slice-o-life style. This will also have ever-so-slight spoilers for the episode "Sins of the Father", but they probably go without mentioning.  
 **Summary:** Tim (and the rest of the batfamily) discovers that when snooping through a certain person's bookshelves, the results can be very...entertaining.

 **A/N:** My first fic spotlighting Tim! Hip-hip-hooray (hopefully)! I must say though: I like to think of Tim as various comics seem to portray him. Though I have a love/hate (mostly bordering near hate) relationship with the New 52 Universe, I do feel like they explore more of Tim's intellect than TAS had time for. While Tim in B:TAS was more of a combination of Tim and Jason (a smart, often hotheaded boy who tended to do before think), I like to see him instead with a superior intellect, deductive skills in line with Bruce himself, and one who would much rather reason a problem through than simply solve it with his fists (but can definitely fight a good fight when required). Don't get me wrong though, I still really like TAS's version of Tim!

And yes, one of my most cherished head-cannons is that Bruce's study is the most masculine study to ever exist. Like it would smell of Old Spice cologne, wood, and old books, and every piece of furniture would be leather. I'm such an old-fashioned, romantic sap xP

Also, this one's for starspatter! I finally wrote a (mostly) Tim-centric fic, even though its totally mindless fluff and rather short. Hope it does your favorite character some justice! :)

* * *

Summer vacations were a strange dichotomy for Timothy Drake. On the one hand, he was finally free from "pettier" distractions to concentrate all his energies toward more important nightly pursuits spent under cape and mask. Yet the other less enticing aspect of such open-ended schedules meant endless daylight hours spent aimlessly wandering a mansion that was bigger than any of the entire tenement buildings he had ever lived in.

Only so much time could be spent following the Wayne Manor's loyal butler around as he went about his daily duties before the elder man gently implied in none-too-many words for Tim to scram and leave him to work in peace. Besides, the boy could only watch a person dust or polish silverware or wash dishes for so long before his mind began to atrophy of boredom. How a grown man could even persuade himself to do such things all day long was a thought Tim found himself prone to wondering when he caught the butler vacuuming furniture for the fourth time that week.

He finally found a person in which to commiserate with in Dick Grayson after the former Robin's unexpected return from the numerous worldwide exploits that had whisked him away from Gotham's iron fist. (1) And while it was nice to be able to complain good-naturedly to someone who would understand his frustrations, even the older and wiser young man's suggestions were beginning to wear thin. Video games could only satisfy his mind's innate hunger for a problem to solve for so long before his concentrations began to wander. Besides, his hand-me-down copy of "Riddle of the Minotaur" was so outdated it was positively medieval, but he never breathed such words to its original owner for fear of the crestfallen look he might receive. (2)

And so it was that one such afternoon, with all other means of passing the time at his disposal exhausted, he had taken to roaming the manor's halls and do some good, old-fashioned exploration. After his performance the first time he had stepped foot in the manor, Tim had expected to be barred from wandering unsupervised around the home's endless corridors for fear he might try to pocket something again. Imagine his surprise when, after meekly asking permission to be allowed to peek into Bruce's enormous study one day, was given an uncharacteristically carefree shrug by the master of the manor himself in reply and a mumbled response of, "Go right ahead. It's not like those books get read anyway..." as the man shuffled away.

So used to being treated as untrustworthy, Tim could not help but allow the pure elation those words had brought to him carry through those first few difficult days of adjusting to this strange new life. To be trusted was -despite being an unknown sensation- one such feeling he was happy to continue nurturing. That life was behind him now, and to which he gladly said good riddance!

After beginning his safari weaving through upholstered hallways and passing by painted faces staring down at him from lofty, framed heights, it dawned on him that he had never fully taken advantage of his new guardian's offer until those winding corridors had brought him to the study door that uneventful afternoon.

A head quickly popped through the partially-open doorway revealed no occupants inside; he was painfully aware of Bruce's absence of late, an inevitable meeting at Wayne Enterprises dragging the man away from his undivided attentions for yet again. There was something oddly comforting about being in the man's presence, almost like that of his treasured batarang. Both were…familiar. The study in which he was attempting to explore seemed such a reflection of Bruce's inner soul that Tim, in his lonesome afternoons without the man for company, felt somehow drawn to.

The first thing that assailed his senses as he passed the threshold was the aroma of real leather combined with that of aging printed page, a fragrance that any intellectual mind seemed to instinctively crave. Lingering still within the room was the spicy tang of its occupant's aftershave though the wearer had long since left the room. Tim could not help but marvel at how stereotypically study-like the room truly was; it was almost like a picture from a catalog, filling every attribute that such a room in a mansion like Wayne Manor would be expected to possess, and yet its current visitor found himself at great peace within its walls.

As he paced up and down the towering pine bookcases lining the far wall, running slender fingers across the endless rows of decaying spines to read their titles, his attention was suddenly drawn exclusively to a cluster of large books which seemed oddly removed from the rest of the collection, almost as though they had been placed there with every intention of being forgotten, yet were of enough sentimental value that they could not be hidden entirely.

Curiosity finally overcame the young detective-to-be, and pulling out the first such book from the row, whose cover was of a suspiciously flowery design, the contents nearly caused its beholder's jaw to come unhinged. In his hands lay something Tim Drake had never believed he would ever see in his lifetime. But oh, was his discovery surely worth it!

In his palms rested a photo album entitled "The Thomas and Martha Wayne Family Album", and on the very first page, a remarkably chubby, blue-eyed baby with a tiny wisp of black hair on an otherwise bald head stared owlishly back at him. Underneath the photo was inscribed the words in blue letters with clichéd paper cutouts of sailboats and anchors and sailor hats surrounding them, "our beloved son".

Tim was later grateful that it had been only he in the study (far from other incriminating human ears), for what he would later recall as a masculine cackle of glee very much resembled a rather childish squeal of delight. There were two people, he reasoned while turning to page after page of even better potential blackmail material, who would appreciate this discovery as much as himself. And luckily for him, they both happened to be below the manor at that very moment and thus close enough to come and appreciate his remarkable find.

~oOo~

"Look at him in this one! Can you imagine _that_ face underneath the cowl?"

A wheeze instantly signaled that the appropriate mental image had arisen as was intended.

"I am vengeance, I am the night, I am _Batbaby_!"

"Dick, that sounds a bit too much like him- and that's creepy..."

Coming from the direction of the main study in the manor, the undignified snickers, snorts, and uncontrollable sputtering giggles had finally begun to draw the ever-diligent attentions of one butler, Alfred Pennyworth. It was only when he had peaked around the open doorway of said study in curiosity, his presence going entirely unnoticed by the three occupants inside, that he saw the source of such unusual a commotion. If there was one thing that more quickly got the elder man's attention because of its rarity, it was laughter. Especially such a raucous example as this instance was.

Yet his heart was lightened considerably in his chest as he witnessed the three individuals, each of them sitting huddled together on the plush leather sofa, hunched over what suspiciously looked like the old Wayne family photo albums. Two of the bent heads were of a similar shade to that of the man they were now attempting to imitate, while the third -a flaming head of red waves flowing to her shoulders- cuffed the latest imitator on the back of the head when his parody turned a little too sour for younger ears.

Alfred was distinctly aware of what sacred memorabilia was contained in those volumes, a last precious link to a family now torn apart by the selfish actions of another. But nothing could hide the smile that spread across his face as he watched the three children -despite two of them being legal adults, he could not bring himself to believe them as anything but- spent time innocently laughing together and perhaps mend some of the bonds that in the past had been worn thin or had threatened to break entirely.

He was not so out-of-touch as to notice Dick's arm casually draped along the back of the sofa, barely avoiding contact with Barbara's shoulders yet surely hovering closely enough for her to sense their obvious presence. And Tim, for all his apparent reservations, had at last seemed to open up and permit himself the luxury of relaxation despite how new this entire experience surely must have been for the lad. Perhaps, at long last, the boy was beginning to feel like he was part of their unique family unit instead of a  
mere outsider.

To see three individuals who willingly put their lives on the line every night for the sake of Gotham's virtuous -or often for even those who were less so- sit comfortably before a warm hearth and allow themselves to be merely human for a blessed few moments gave the elder man's spirits a great lift; even if it was at the humorous expense of the man who had brought them all together into his strange -if never dull- life, it was a true victory none-the-less.

"Holy smokes, he's _smiling_ in this one," suddenly came Tim's exclamation tinged with awe. Alfred chuckled quietly at the surprised tone in the voice of Bruce's newest charge, knowing full well the photo they were looking at. It truly was one of the few times the man had ever genuinely smiled, most likely because his parents had been cracking jokes and making silly faces from behind the camera lens.

"Is it wrong to think he looks creepier when he's smiling," Barbara's dry rejoinder questioned before she was quickly interrupted.

"Sinister things happen when he smiles, Babs. I would know, I lived with 'im."

"You're such a drama queen, Dick."

As he listened to the three young people banter on, which included one "drama queen's" adamant argument to the opposite of the accusations, -his own duties entirely forgotten in favor of savoring the moment- Alfred was startled out of his reverie when a towering presence appeared suddenly at his elbow and without warning rumbled in his ear, "Alfred, I left my latest version of the stockholder's presentation on my desk. What's going on?"

"I do believe, sir, that Masters Dick, Timothy, and Miss Gordon have found your baby pictures."

A rather uncultured guffaw which upset "Miss Gordon's" glasses from her nose provided proof of Alfred's assessment and the combined nasal giggles of three voices in full key drove the message home to the man in whose pictures they were scrutinizing. (3) A voice wheezed with mirth -Tim's this time- and attempted to call attention to something within the volume between breathless huffs of laughter, "They seriously put him in a _sailor_ outfit?!"

It was during Dick's subsequent sing-song rendition of "Batman, the sailor man", sung out of key only slightly enough to cause Barbara to grab the nearest throw pillow and attempt to stuff it in the man's mouth, that Bruce apparently decided retreat _was_ the better part of valor and begun to back away from the doorway with all the stealth his training could provide. Alfred's senses -so honed after many years of raising the man who would be Gotham's Dark Knight- instantly caught the man in his escape and called after the figure who looked as though he were attempting to flee the scene, "What of your presentation, Master Bruce?"

Perhaps it was the echo that the halls of Wayne Manor afforded, but the elder butler could have sworn there was a desperate lilt in the voice quickly putting distance between himself and sure humiliation at the hands of his protégés.

"I think I'll just adlib this one!"

The butler could not be sure, but he swore the footfalls reverberating down the hallway broke into a running pace halfway down the corridor, but perhaps his aging ears were playing tricks on him. Yet when Alfred turned away from Bruce's rapidly disappearing form to look at said future carriers of the Batman legacy, it was clear that Bruce's parting words had thoroughly distracted them -no doubt thanks to their more stellar sense of hearing- and notified them of the eavesdropper in their midst.

Sage brown eyes met three pairs of cherubic, blue-eyed expressions, each blinking innocently up at their discoverer. Color him a sentimental old fool, but Alfred Pennyworth could not find within himself the heart to scold them.

* * *

(1) Referencing "Batman: The Lost Adventures" comics  
(2) Referencing the episode "If You're So Smart, Why Aren't You Rich?"  
(3) I like Babs with glasses even though she didn't have them in TAS. Sue me! ;P


End file.
